


All bets are off.

by peachbellini



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachbellini/pseuds/peachbellini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rafa never likes to lose a bet, but winning this one is a particularly sweet victory. </p><p>Celebration fic set after the 2011 Davis Cup Final in Sevilla, Spain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All bets are off.

"50€ says you can't down that drink in one go."

Rafa squints up towards the blurred voice drifting into his hearing over the thump of the club's music. David is smiling with his entire face, eyes bright and skin covered in a fine layer of sparkling sweat. Rafa shakes his head and leans up from his seat slumped on the bar stool to cuff David in the face - but he must've had more to drink that he thought because it's more of a caress, fingers sliding over the warm skin of the older Spaniard's cheek. David laughs at him, clutching Rafa's fingers between his and guiding them off his cheek, kissing the tips. He watches Rafa as he does it and a warmth spreads around the younger man's stomach.  He downs his drink, because he's never been one to lose a bet, silently berating himself for the way he moves his mouth on the neck of the bottle, knowing deep down that this flirting will lead nowhere but embarrassment and awkward silences the next day.

When the last drop trickles down the back of his throat he slams his bottle down hard on the bar, brain fuzzily recognizing that David is still holding his fingers, his eyes locked on Rafa's throat. He paws at it subconsciously; worried he has dirt or worse smudged along the skin there.

"You owe me 50€." He says eventually, voice stumbling over the words.

"Guess I do." David returns, and either Rafa's ears aren't working properly or David sounds a little stumbly too.

"Did good today, Raf." Nodding at him, still clutching the fingers of Rafa's left hand, rubbing his thumb softly along the calloused bumps of the skin. "Really good."

"Pfft." Rafa pushes a little at the older man's shoulder; tipping his balance forward and nearly toppling off his chair, glad for the close heat of the other man's body to push him back to sitting. "You're the hero. Everyone says so. 

David blushes, and for the first time Rafa finds it beautiful, the spread of colour along his cheekbones. It feels like it's just them in the club - distant sounds of Marcel chanting about champions and Feli flirting with the bartender fade until it's just David's breathing in his ears and the sweat between their hands.

"I'm not a hero." David mumbles, and Rafa wishes he could kiss him, like he could transfer some kind of self-belief through his lips. He reaches a hand out to squeeze David's arm, but he misjudges, resting careful fingertips on the smaller man's hip, instinctively fanning the digits, brushing along hot skin where his t-shirt rides up.

He thinks it's going to happen then, their faces hovering close, hot breath on his face, but they're still in a bar and it's still not okay.

"Come outside with me." Rafa hears himself say, breath coming out in gasps. He's suddenly aware of his every nerve ending, the spikes of sensation in the pads of his fingers, still resting carefully on David's hip.

He doesn't nod, doesn't say yes, just tugs a little on Rafa's hand, letting him slide to standing and then there's no breathing space between them, sweat dampened clothes rubbing, chest to chest, and Rafa has to bite his lips to stop himself from doing anything else with them 

"Sure?" David whispers, and there's something in his eyes that overwhelms the brightness, a deep seated lust that, when Rafa really thinks about it, pushing his drink addled brain to its limits, has been there since Friday night, when he wrapped arms around a match-tired David for the world to see.

Rafa doesn't nod, doesn't say yes, just squeezes David's hip and lets himself be led by those fingers still clutched in the other man's hand. One foot in front of the other to the fire door at the back of the club, cold December air hitting him in the face the second they tumble into the alleyway. David's lips are on his then, deep and hard and Rafa can't believe they've never done this before. He lets the older man take the lead, mainly because he doesn't know if he could do it himself right now. It's easy to fall into David, searching fingers and searching tongue in the freezing depths of winter, the air around them steaming with their kisses, panting breaths coming out in a steady stream of smoke. He doesn't know how it happens but he's on his knees, mouthing at the tight denim of David's jeans, trying to prove the older man's worth through sheer want.

"Raf, Rafa." David is shaking his head, pulling him up by the shoulder of his shirt. "Shots in your knees."

Through everything there's still that moment, that maturity he has, the care for everyone around him.

So Rafa just rocks towards the spot where his mouth should be, biting David's tongue between his teeth, kissing him like the smack of skin is what he needs to survive. It's crazy he's getting off from this, like a teenager at a house party in the coat cupboard, but the intensity in the movement reminds him of the way they both play tennis.

David whines, groans, moans into Rafa's shoulder, whispering that he's close and 'Oh God, Rafa, you're- you're so-'.  He takes the moment of weakness as cue for what he's desperate to do, dropping tired knees down to hard floor and tugging David's jeans from his hips. He doesn't waste time with teasing, covering the head of David's cock with his lips and moving at the same pace they'd set with their grinding, feeling David come undone with his fingers threaded in the sweaty strands of Rafa's hair, grunting when he comes. Rafa swallows and smiles around David, slipping his lips back, head swimming and he can't seem to make his legs move, slumping back against the cold brick behind him. He's still hard in his own jeans, looking up at David as he braces himself on the wall, adrenaline from the weekend and pure, blissful comedown rolled into one. Rafa palms himself watching David like that, a hero undone, until his vision turns black and a shiver of pleasure runs to every inch of his body.

David sits down next to him eventually, searching for Rafa's fingers and holding them tight once more, like it's a bond he can't break, just in case Rafa slips away. People come and go from the alley, smokers and Feli dragging a man who definitely isn't Fernando into a cab. They sit and watch, mostly silent, but Rafa is too far-gone for words anyway.

"Rafa? David?"

It's Marcel who convinces them to move from the cold, and he either doesn't notice the tousled hair on Rafa's head, the undone button of David's fly, or he pretends not to, sitting opposite them in the taxi and staring out the window most of the way.

When Rafa wakes the next morning, head pounding and stomach churning, he's alone, but he didn't expect anything less. He sees David in the lobby with his bags, and his girlfriend, perfect and serene and everything he wasn't in those moments after he came, fingernails scraping Rafa's scalp. David looks at him with a small smile and that's enough, for now.

They'll always have Sevilla sounds corny, so Rafa won't say that.

He'll say he has the tight grip of David's hand on his fingers, his bright eyes. He'll say that he has the blush across the bridge of David's nose.

He has that night.

And he has 50€ in an envelope that lands on his doormat a week later.

 

Rafa,

I think you won, if I remember correctly.

Thanks for everything,

David.


End file.
